


Yellow Rose of Texas

by kimberlyeab



Category: Fallout (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 06:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28347042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimberlyeab/pseuds/kimberlyeab
Summary: There's a yellow rose in TexasThat I’m going to seeNo other fellow knows herNo other, only me





	Yellow Rose of Texas

**Author's Note:**

> Christmas Gift for my Boyfriend RoMS!

It was a bar like the hundreds that stretched the dusty trails leading from The Hub across the vastness of the east. A small establishment constructed from dusty wood that was generations old and reinforced by sheet metal that bore information for roads that had turned to sand many decades ago.

There were no windows as what little glass survived the war had been worn away and no local industry had sprung up to replace it.

Liquor came in two types: hard and soft. Both were fermented from a local variant of agave fruit and the only difference was the alcoholic content and the number of critters that decided to reside within the mason jars it was stored in.

The rule of thumb out in these parts was always to go with the hard unless you wanted to get a pulpy beverage that would likely cause dysentery.

I sloshed the brownish fluid around in my battered tin cup, taking a delicate sip. It burned, which was good, because that burn would also burn away anything that would’ve made me ill. I could not afford to get sick at a time like this.

“You don’t look like you’re from around these parts,” the bartender said.

He was an older gentleman with a weathered complexion that said he

had been in this town since birth, had never left it even once, and would join the row of crosses outside of the little church on the outskirts when his time finally came.

I smiled. “What gave it away?”

“Your necklace,” he said, attempting to polish one of his cups with a rag that had long ago lost its ability to do so.

I looked down at my apparel, clutching the little silver medallion that hung from my neck. It truly was a beautiful piece, something to remind me of better times.

“Silver is too precious to waste on trinkets,” the bartender commented.

I nodded. “Sometimes if the trinket is important enough a sacrifice can be made.”

“Maybe where you come from. But out here? Not so much,” he said, glancing at me. “What’s your name?”

“Rose,” I said. “And I guess you’re right. I’m from out west.”

“How far west?” the bartender asked, narrowing his gaze. He reached under his counter, likely resting a hand against whatever antique firearm he owned.

“Far enough west that I can pay in California script as well as Caesar’s coinage,” I said, taking another sip. “Though I suppose neither of them will do me much good out here.”

“Local currency is bullets,” he said.

I chuckled. “How practical. Makes more sense than using bottle caps.” I looked him in the eye. “What calibre are you packing?”

“One under my counter is a 12 gauge, one in my holster is a 10 mm,” he said.

I nodded and very carefully reached into my satchel, producing two shotgun shells and placing them on the countertop. “Does that cover my drink?”

He looked at them and removed his hand from the shotgun, picking them up with great care.

“These are new,” he said, unable to keep the wonderment out of his voice.

I smirked. “Last two I have left from California. Not that they’ll do me much good. The pipe gun I was using fractured along the barrel when I got into a tussle with a pair of bandits.”

“Where at?” he asked.

“Near Pass Oh,” I replied. “I think that’s what the locals called it.”

He winced. “Not a route I would recommend. On your way back, you should probably head north and go through Oklahoma. All tribals up there but at least they won’t try and rob you blind.” He paused, snorting. “Well… mostly.”

“What makes you think I’m heading back?” I ran my finger along the rim of the cup. “Maybe there’s something out east that I’m trying to reach?”

The bartender shook his head. “Only thing out east is radiation and more radiation.” He looked me in the eye. “You seem like a woman on a mission not a settler looking for untamed wasteland to make her own.”

“I’m trying to reach La Corpi Christine,” I explained.

“I don’t know what for,” the bartender said. “Only thing you’ll find there is a small fishing village owned by the Orleans. I’d recommend Houston if you are actually trying to find something specific.” He pointed his still dirty cup at me. “Now that’s a proper trading town.”

I nodded. “Perhaps if I was looking for trade. But sadly, there’s kind of a major obstacle in the way of California reaching the Kingdom of the Orleans.”

“Is that how bad it’s gotten?” the bartender asked.

“Only way to avoid the Legion is to either head North into Berta or take a boat from Baja into Mexico. Which is mostly bandit country no matter which route you go.” I looked down at my drink, giving it stir. “Thankfully the border is porous enough for a single wandering to slip through unmolested.”

“Well, if you aren’t looking for trade, what exactly are you looking for?” the bartender asked, actually seeming a little intrigued.

I smirked. “A flower.”

He cocked a brow. “A flower?”

“A yellow flower that is supposed to grow along the Rio Grande, a rose of some sort.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “Do you honestly believe in that old wives’ tale? I’ve lived here my entire life, Rose, and the number of travellers who head south trying to find that damned flower…” He shook his head. “It doesn’t exist. And if you value your life I’d recommend turning back now.”

“Well it better,” I murmured, downing the last of my drink before slapping a couple 10 mm rounds onto the table. It would hopefully be enough for a generous refill. “Because I damned well need that flower.”

“A lot of people need that flower,” the bartender murmured. “But needing a miracle and actually finding one are two very different things. If you want my advice go home and spend time with whoever needs that flower. You’ll kick yourself for not doing so when you had the chance.”

I sighed. “I’ll take that into consideration.”

The bartender glanced at me and shook his head slowly. “You’re still going, aren’t you?”

He drew forth a mason jug and tilted it to the side, refilling my cup with its potent smelling liquor.

I nodded and took a delicate little sip of burning agave. “Yep.”

* * *

La Corpi Christine had been a neat little fishing village. A row of little homes had once stood, nearly touching the coastline with quant little boats ready to prowl the waters of the Gulf. Fishing racks had once been set up to dry the populace’s catch and a proud flag had probably fluttered from a pole, telling all who approached whose protection these citizens were under.

 _Had_ was the important word in that statement.

What there as now was the ashen and smoldering remains of civilization.

It didn’t matter where you were in the remains of the carcass that was once called the United States of America. Raiders, bandits, and uncouth men seemed to be the norm from coast to horrific coast.

I skirted around the ruins of the village, not wanting to head in and see what remained. I’d been to enough settlements left in such a state. I knew what horrors could be inflicted upon my fellow man.

Plus, there was also the threat of if those raiders lingered behind, waiting for a fresh catch.

I felt the pistol upon my hip, my hand lingering near it. I had a ten-round clip chambered within. Nine for the raiders and one for myself if it came to that.

My pace quickened, my boots thudding against the dusty plains as I adopted something similar to a forced march. It was a pace I was familiar with, having been put in such a state many times during my service with the Rangers.

I didn’t like that village. I didn’t like it one bit. The sooner it was out of sight, and out of mind, the better.

My breath came out in terse puffs as I tried my best to control it. If they were waiting in ambush, I didn’t want to betray even the slimmest proof of my existence.

There was a snap off to my left, like a branch being crunched under foot.

I reached for my pistol, whipping it off of my belt and aiming it towards the source of that sound.

I nearly pulled the trigger.

_Nearly._

There was a boy.

He looked just as panicked as I felt, his eyes widening in utter horror. My mind started to fire on all cylinders, playing out every possibility that could come from this encounter.

_Was he a refugee? A survivor? Or a raider?_

If he was a raider, why didn’t he have a firearm?

_Perhaps a scout?_

If so then all he had to do was scream to get the attention of the serious raiders with actual weaponry who were likely hiding over the ridge.

Instead, he just continued to stare at me, his mouth agape.

If he was a raider, then he was incredibly bad at his job. Any raider worth their salt should’ve been used to having a pistol pointed at them.

I decided to spare his life, pointing my barrel towards the ground. The gun wouldn’t go back in my belt but hopefully it would be enough to settle him.

“Who are you?” I asked.

He blinked a couple of times, stunned silent. It took a moment but eventually he stirred from his stupor. “Jean… Jean Capet.”

That was an Orleans’ name if I had ever heard one.

I smiled at him, trying my best to seem reassuring even if the pistol in my hand didn’t offer the same message. “I’m Rose. Just… Rose.”

He blinked at me, then nodded slowly. “Nice to meet you, Rose.”

“Are you all alone, or are you with other people?” I asked.

“My family is…” He pursed his lips, realizing that maybe he was giving a smidge too much information to a stranger. Especially a stranger who had just pointed a pistol at him. “Nearby.”

“Is your family from the village?” I carefully slipped the pistol back into my holster, taking a gamble as I approached him. “Please tell me that you are.”

He nodded quickly.

That’s when I heard the thud of footsteps nearby.

I glanced towards them to see a man who looked like an older and more weathered version of Jean approach. He had a beaten old shotgun in his well-worn hands. It was trained on my torso.

“Fuck,” I grumbled.

“Are you a raider?” he asked, sounding eerily calm for a man with his finger on the trigger.

I snorted. “If I was a raider, I would’ve put a round through Jean instead of trying to talk to him.”

“Slaver then?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I’m a little lonely to be a slaver. Can’t really kidnap people all by myself. I’d need to sleep eventually and well…” I chuckled grimly. “I hear that inattentive slavers are the kind who end up with a rock coming down against their skull.”

The father worked his jaw for a good couple of moments. Each second was torturously dragged out, making the tense pit in my stomach grow.

_Would he pull the trigger, or wouldn’t he? That was the all-important question._

Finally, he sighed, lowering his weapon. “Alright, I guess you check out. But what the hell are you doing down here?”

He allowed the shotgun to rest against his leg, the barrels pointed towards the ground. Still more than capable of taking a bite out of me if I tried anything hasty.

“Looking for a flower,” I said.

He looked at me and then burst out laughing. “Of course, you are.”

I sighed. “I’m guessing you get a lot of people coming through these parts looking for it?”

He nodded and motioned with his shotgun towards the hill. “And they all want to talk to our _‘wise man’_.” He chuckled softly, now shaking his head. “But I’m guessing that you won’t be dissuaded, if I tell you it’s all bullshit?”

I smirked. I couldn’t help but like his straight forward attitude. It reminded me of home.

“A man desperate for water will always believe that the mirage lingering on the horizon is an oasis.” I quoted, then looked at him. “I don’t think I caught your name by the way.”

“Born William,” he said, “but rechristened to Luc when the Blue Jackets decided to turn our little village into a colonial outlet.”

I followed him up the hill, and as we crested it, I saw that there was a whole village worth of tents here. Everybody looked busy at work, prepping what I could only imagine was some sort of communal meal, considering the amount of fish moving about.

It made the whole place reek.

“Speaking of the village, what…” I began.

Luc lifted his hand, cutting me off. “Are you from civilization?”

I blinked, taken aback by the question.

“I mean I guess so,” I said. “As civilized as the world can be anyhow.”

He started his way down the hill, resting the shotgun over his shoulder as he approached the temporary village.

“Well let me put it this way,” he said. “Civilization is great for a lot of things. But only if you’re at the heart of it. If you’re some trader in New Paris or a spice producer in Miami, then the Kingdom of the Orleans is great for you.”

I nodded. “But not so great for the Village of Corpi Christine?”

He flicked his wrist towards me and smiled. “Exactly. Sure, we get a couple more trade ships a year than before, but by the time they reach us they have all the fish they could ever want. Then you have the taxmen who come by and take a portion of our haul at the end of every season. This doesn’t even account for the lag it takes for officials and military help to reach us in times of an emergency.” He snorted in disdain. “So why exactly are we paying into this system if we aren’t making anything off of it? Seems like a con more than anything else.”

I smirked. That was the kind of attitude that every cattle baron and freeholder had outside of the big cities of the NCR. It was refreshing to hear something so familiar even this far away from home.

“So, you essentially committed arson and hope that they don’t come back next year to investigate?” I asked.

He chuckled. “See, you’re someone who understands what’s going on. They see our village turned to kindling and since we’re the last stop before they turn around, hopefully they don’t come back next year.” He rolled his hand. “Or the year after or the year after. Then we can go back to how it was when I was William.”

I held my tongue, not wanting to give my perspective on the subject.

As someone who had endured the NCR since birth, I knew that civilization had a way of reaching people. That was regardless of whatever strategy they employed to try and avoid it. But he was giving me exactly what I wanted so I saw no reason to rain on his parade.

“We have a saying for this kind of situation, back home,” I said.

He nodded as he waved to one of his fellow townspeople, getting them to calm down at the presence of a stranger in their midst. “And what would that be?”

“Burn the bar and collect the insurance money,” I replied.

“I suppose that works,” he admitted. “Though there really isn’t any money to collect.”

The people of this village eyed me up with a wary skepticism.

I couldn’t very well blame them.

They were like every other village and hamlet I had passed through on my journey. If they were lucky, maybe one or two of them had seen a little bit of the surrounding wasteland.

Did any of them even know what was beyond their little sliver of dessert?

Would any of them have heard of the NCR, or hell, even the Legion?

To them I was a stranger.

“How did you know I wasn’t working with the Orleans?” I asked.

William snorted. “I suppose, I don’t. But you aren’t like those pompous governors or bureaucrats who sails in every couple of years for a visit.”

“Fair enough,” I said, allowing the conversation to fade away.

We made it to the very centre of the tent commune, or at least, what felt like the centre. It really didn’t look any different from the rest. The tents here were of the same ramshackle design and made from the same brown material.

William motioned towards one of these tents, peeling back the flap.

“Papa Smith, you have a visitor,” he said.

An old voice flittered forth. “What kind of visitor?”

“An outsider who wants to talk about that silly little flower,” William said, making sure that I could see his very pronounced eyeroll.

Though I promptly ignored it.

“Oh,” the elderly man said, sounding a little out of it before speaking a bit more clearly. “Well let her in.”

William nodded towards me and I slipped under the tent’s fold.

In the middle of the tent was an older man who was sitting upon a wooden box. There was an oil lamp near his feet and a book within his lap. Literacy was a strange skill to have in these parts. It did wonders for his image, however, making him seem like quite the sagely figure.

His clothes were tidy but old and the smell of mothballs was ever present within his den. He was wrinkled, sun-beaten, and had a scruffy grey beard that coloured his face but hadn’t grown to any considerable length.

“Hello, dear,” he said, smiling at me. “Sorry for William’s abrasive attitude. Some of the younger generation are less willing to believe in the tales of old.”

I offered him a smile back, sitting upon the dusty floor cross-legged. “Wives’ tales have a way of doing that.”

He nodded. “I will admit that whatever information I could possibly tell you is quite shaky, and often, half-forgotten memories from my childhood. Back when I would hear my own elders speak of them. It’s been many generations since anyone from our village has actually ventured south to find one of these flowers.”

“Your shaky memories are more to go on than simply wandering in blind,” I said.

He looked like he was about to say something, working his jaw. Though it seemed to die as his gaze glassed over and his focus went over my head.

I held my tongue, not wanting to upset my host but I couldn’t help but feel like I was just on the cusp of finishing this quest.

The silence was painful.

Thankfully, Smith stirred from it, looking at me. “About two and a half days south of here is an oasis flanked by two hills. In this little valley grows the flower that you seek.” He let out an amused note. “Just be thankful that I learned to paraphrase my elder’s prophecies.”

I nodded, feeling a smile cross my lips. “Thank you, Papa Smith.”

“Please pack well. The further south you travel, the hotter our environment becomes,” he said.

I laughed at that, knowing heat all too well. This stretch of coastline was practically chilly compared to Death Valley, which I had crossed many months prior.

“Can you do me a favour?” Smith asked.

I glanced at him. “What would that be?”

He reached behind himself, producing a small burlap pouch. As he reached inside, he drew out a plain box, holding it out to me.

I took it and flipped it open. Inside, was a worn silver ring.

“It was my wife’s,” he explained. “And I was wondering if you could leave it at her grave? She passed in a village north of here called Fisher’s Creek. And I assume you’ll be passing through it on your way back home.”

I nodded and took it from him, very carefully stowing it away in my pack. “It’s the least I could, Papa Smith.”

A favour for a favour. A form of barter I had grown intimate with when script and coin no longer did me any good.

* * *

“Two days my ass,” I barked through parched lips.

I stumbled forward, barely able to stay upon my feet as I lumbered through the sunbaked path of sand and dirt before me.

My canteen hung upon my hip. The last few droplets of liquid were gone. They had disappeared a couple hours prior. There was no more left and it seemed that there would be no more on the horizon.

My only hope for salvation was the flower, the yellow rose. It could cure everything, every ailment, every toxin. It would whisk away dehydration, it would cure the stiffness within my muscles, and the flaking of my skin. This last one was a sign of radiation. I must’ve picked up a dosage without realizing it.

I was a dead woman, though one who still held onto hope.

As I shuffled forward, I began to think of my wife back home, wondering what she must’ve been thinking, wondering if she even still lived. I tried to call upon memories of happier times: our marriage, our honeymoon, our adventures in the north.

I tried to remember her smile, her smell, her tender touch.

I needed that flower. I needed to see her again.

On the horizon, I saw something made of concrete.

I picked up my pace, turning my shuffle into a shamble. It appeared that I still had enough in my tank to reach it, doing so after a few minutes of hopeful euphoria.

I fell against it with a heavy thud, sighing loudly. It was a barrier of some sort, old, ancient.

“Who put this here?” I grumbled, letting out a ghastly bark that might’ve been laughter. “Who puts a wall in the middle of the fucking desert?”

_Where was the yellow rose? Where was my miracle?_

I sunk to the sandy ground, looking out upon the path I had recently treaded. There would be no hope of me following it on the way back. I was on my last legs. No water, no medicine, my only hope of salvation either coming in the form of that fabled flower or the pistol upon my hip.

Time seemed to crawl along.

My shallow breathing and the light fluttering of the breeze were my only companions.

Seconds became minutes and I could feel myself fading quickly with each one that passed.

I forced myself back to my feet, placing a hand against the wall and bracing myself.

“There has to be some way around this,” I whispered, running my hand across the surface.

Dust and dirt fell away from the slab and I couldn’t help but notice a very faded yellow underneath. This piqued my interest and I drew a hand across the slab. More debris fell away and more yellow was revealed.

I wiped again and again, until I had cleared a significant portion of one of the slabs.

What I saw underneath was enough to make me bark out more cruel laughter. It was a grim and tortured rumble that echoed forth.

Underneath the dirt, dust, and sand was a mural. A mural of a yellow rose that stood upon the banks of an oasis with two hills flanking it in the backdrop.

There was a motto written underneath of it in white.

_The Yellow Rose of Texas._

I stumbled back and fell upon my ass, laughing all the while. All I could think about was every saloon owner, canteen employee, and person who had told me to turn back. All I could think about was every chance I had to stop this forsaken journey and be with my wife for her final days.

All I could think about was my parched throat and the sickness that currently devoured me from within.

I reached for my belt, drawing forth my pistol.

There were ten shots left.

So, I spared one upon the mural, lodging the munition right in the centre of the flower’s opened pedals. Though such an act did little to sate my fury.

I wobbled back and forth for a moment as if expecting something to happen. Something to justify the end of my life.

But nothing did.

So, I made up my mind and clapped the gun’s barrel against the side of my head.

What harm would there be in sparring another bullet for myself?

_None._

So, I did.

* * *

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